Zoe Barton
by sugarprincess89
Summary: The 21st century Jane Eyre
1. Chapter 1 Marc

Chapter 1: Marc

There was no opportunity of taking a walk that day. We had been wandering, in the leafless garden at one in the afternoon; but since dinner (Aunt Yule, when there was no company, dined early) the cold winter wind had brought with it clouds so sombre, and a rain so penetrating, that further out-door exercise was now out of the question.

I was glad: I never liked long walks, especially on chilly afternoons: dreadful to me was the coming home in the raw twilight, with nipped fingers and toes, and a heart saddened by the chidings of Agatha, the maid, and humbled by the consciousness of my physical inferiority to Adelaide, Marc, and Jeanette Yule.

The mentioned Adelaide, Marc, and Jeanette were now clustered round their mother in the living-room: she lay reclined on a sofa by the fireside, and with her darlings around her (at the time neither quarreling nor crying) looked perfectly happy. Me, she had forbidden from joining the group; saying, "She regretted to be under the necessity of keeping me at a distance; but that until she heard from Agatha, and could discover by her own observation, that I was truthfully watning to acquire a more sociable and childlike disposition, a more attractive and sprightly manner—something lighter, franker, more natural, as it were—she really must exclude me from privileges intended only for contented, happy, little children."

"What did Agatha say I did?" I asked.

"Zoe, I don't like objectioners or questioners; besides, there is something really disturbing about a child talking to her elders in that manner. Go sit somewhere; and until you can speak pleasantly, Don't talk."

I slipped into the breakfast-room adjoined to the living-room. On the far end, it contained a bookshelf: I was soon engrossed in a volume, making sure that it was the one filled with pictures. I mounted onto the window-seat: gathering up my feet, I sat cross-legged, like a Turk; and, having drawn the red moreen curtain nearly closed, I was shrined in double retirement.

Folds of scarlet drapery shut in my view to the right hand; to the left were the clear panes of glass, protecting, but not separating me from the drear November day. At intervals, while turning over the pages of my book, I looked at the aspect of that winter afternoon. In the distance, was a pale blank of mist and cloud; near a scene of wet lawn and storm-beat shrub, with ceaseless rain sweeping away wildly before a long and lamentable blast.

I returned to my book—Pride and Prejudice. Each picture told a story; mysterious often to my undeveloped understanding and imperfect feelings, yet ever profoundly interesting: as interesting as the storis Agatha sometimes read on winter evenings, when she was in a good mood; and when, having brought her ironing-board to the nursery, she allowed us to there, and while ironed Aunt Yule's lace frills, and crimped her nightgown borders, fed our eager attention with passages of love and adventure taken from old fairy tales and other ballads.

With Daisy on my knees, I was happy: happy at least in my way. I feared nothing but interruption, and that came too soon. The breakfast-room door opened.

"Boo! Miss Loner!" cried the voice of Marc Yule; then he paused: he found the room apparently empty.

"Where the freak is she!" he continued. "Addy! Jenny! (calling to his sisters) Zoe isn't here: tell mom she is run out in the rain—stupid girl!"

"I should open the curtain," I thought to myself; and I wished fervently he might not discover my hiding-place: nor would Marc Yule be able to find it on his own; he was not quick; but Adelaide just put her head in at the door, and said at once—

"She is in the window-seat, Marc."

I came out immediately, because I trembled at the idea of being dragged out by Marc.

"What do you want?" I asked, sharply.

"Say, 'What do you want, Master Yule?'" was the answer. "I want you to come here;" and sitting down in an arm-chair, he gestured that I was to approach and stand in front him.

Marc Yule was in middle school, fourteen years old; four years older than me: large and stout for his age, with a dingy and unwholesome skin; thick lineaments in a spacious visage, heavy limbs and large extremities. He stuffed himself like a hungry bum at the table, which made him chubby, and gave him a dim and bleared eye and flabby cheeks. He was supposed to be in school right now; but his mother brought him home for a month or two, "on account of his delicate health." Mr. Weller, the housekeeper, affirmed that he would do very well if he had fewer cakes and candy sent him from home; but the mother's heart turned from an opinion so harsh, and inclined rather to the more refined idea that Marc's sallowness was owed to over-application and, perhaps, homesickness.

Marc didn't have much affection for his mother and sisters, but a great dislike to me. He bullied and punished me; not two or three times a week, nor once or twice a day, but continually: every nerve I had, feared him, and every inch of flesh in my bones shrank when he came near. There were moments when I was bewildered by the terror he inspired, because I had no chance whatsoever against either his menaces or his inflictions; the servants didn't want to offend their young master by taking my part against him, and Aunt Yule was blind and deaf to the subject: she never saw him strike or heard him abuse me, though he did both now and then in her very presence, more frequently, however, behind her back.

Obediently, I came up to his chair: he spent about three minutes, sticking out his tongue at me as far as he could without damaging the roots: I knew he would soon strike, and while dreading the blow, I mused at his disgusting and ugly appearance. I wonder if he read the expression on my face; because, instantly, without warning, he struck suddenly and strongly. I staggered back, and on regaining my balance retreated back a step or two from his chair.

"That is for your rude comment to my mother earlier today," he said, "and for hiding behind curtains, and for the look you had in your eyes two minutes ago, you rat!"

Accustomed to Marc Yule's abuse, I never thought of replying; my attention was on how to endure the blow which would certainly follow the insult.

"What were you doing behind the curtain?" he asked.

"I was reading."

"Show me the book."

I returned to the window and brought it to him.

"You have no right to take our books; you are a dependent, mom says; you have no money; your father left you dirt poor; you should be begging, and not living here with rich children like us, and eat the same meals we do, and wear clothes at our mother's expense. I'll teach you for rummaging in my bookshelves: they _are_ mine; the whole house belongs to me, or will in a few years. Go and stand by the door, out of the way of mirrors and windows."

I did as I was told, not aware of his intentions; but when I saw him lift the book and stand up to hurl it, I instinctively stepped aside with a cry of alarm: not soon enough, however; the volume was flung, it hit me. I fell, striking my head against the door and cutting it. The cut bled, the pain was sharp: my terror had passed its climax; other feelings succeeded.

"You mean and hateful boy!" I screamed. "Are you trying to kill me!?"

"Good heavens" he cried. "Did she say that to me? Did you hear her, Adelaide and Jeanette? Should I tell mom? but first—"

He ran headlong at me: I felt him grasp my hair and my shoulders. I saw in him a tyrant, a murderer. I felt a drop or two of blood from my head trickle down my neck. I don't very well know what I did with my hands, but he called me "Rat! Rat!" and bellowed out aloud. Adelaide and Jeanette ran to get Aunt Yule, who was upstairs: she came to the scene, followed by Agatha and her maid Eva. We were parted: I heard the words—

"Dear Lord! What possessed you to challenge Master Marc!"

"Did anybody see a picture of such passion!"

Then Aunt Yule interrupted—

"Take her away to the red-room, and lock her in there." Four hands immediately grabbed me, and I was pulled upstairs.


	2. Chapter 2 Red Room

Chapter 2: Red Room

I struggled the whole way: a new thing for me, which greatly strengthened the bad opinion Agatha and Eva had of me. The fact is, I was _out_ of myself: I was conscious that a moment's mutiny had already rendered me liable to strange penalties, and, like any other rebel slave, I felt resolved, in my desperation, to go to all lengths.

"Hold her arms, Eva: she's like a mad cat."

"You shameful girl" cried the lady's-maid. "What shocking conduct, Zoe, to hit a young gentleman, your benefactress's son! Your young master."

"Master! How is he my master? Am I a servant?"

"No; you are less than a servant, you do nothing for your keep. Sit down, and think over your actions."

By now, they shoved me into the room indicated by Aunt Yule, and thrust me on a stool: my impulse was to rise from it like a spring; their two pair of hands pushed me down instantly.

"If you don't sit still, you will be tied down," said Agatha. "Eva, lend me one of your belt; she would rip mine instantly."

Eva reached to retrieve one of her belts from her waist. This preparation for bonds, and the additional ignominy it inferred, took a little of the excitement out of me.

"Don't take it off," I cried; "I won't move."

I attached myself to my seat with my hands.

"You better not," said Agatha; and when she sensed that I was really cooling down, she loosened her hold of me; then she and Eva stood with folded arms, looking darkly and doubtfully on my face, as incredulous of my sanity.

"She never did so before," said Agatha at last, turning to Eva.

"But it was always in her," was the reply. "I've told Mrs. Yule often my opinion about the girl, and she agreed with me. She's feisty little thing: I never saw a girl her age with so much energy."

Agatha didn't answered; but addressing me, she said—"You ought to be aware, Miss, that you are under obligations to Mrs. Yule: she keeps you: if she were to throw you out, you would have to go out on the streets."

I had nothing to say to these words: they were not new to me: my very first recollections of existence included hints of the same thing. This reproach of my dependence had become a vague sing-song in my ear: very painful and crushing, but only half intelligible. Eva joined in—

"And you shouldn't think of yourself as an equal with the Mrs. Yule and Master Yule, because she kindly allows you to be brought up with them. They have a great deal of money, and you will have none: it is your place to be humble, and to try to make yourself agreeable to them."

"What we tell you is for your own good," added Agatha, without any harshness in her voice, "you should try to be useful and pleasant, then, perhaps, you would have a home here; but if you become passionate and rude, I am sure, she will send you away."

"Besides," said Eva, "God will punish her: He might strike her dead in the midst of her tantrums, and then where would she go? Come, Agatha, leave her. Say your prayers, Zoe, when you are by yourself; if you don't repent, something evil might be come down the chimney and take you away."

They went, shutting the door, and locking it behind them.

The red-room was a square area, very seldom slept in, I might say never, indeed, unless when a chance influx of visitors renders it necessary to use all the accommodations the mansion contained: yet it was one of the largest and stateliest rooms in the mansion. A bed supported on massive pillars of mahogany, hung with curtains of deep red damask, stood out like a tabernacle in the center; the two large windows, with their blinds always drawn down, were half shrouded in festoons and falls of similar drapery; the carpet was red; the table at the foot of the bed was covered with a crimson cloth; the walls were a soft fawn color with a blush of pink in it; the wardrobe, the dresser, the chairs were of darkly polished old mahogany. Out of these deep surrounding shades rose high, and glared white, the piled-up mattresses and pillows of the bed, spread with a snowy Marseilles counterpane. Scarcely less prominent was an ample cushioned easy-chair near the head of the bed, also white, with a footstool before it; and looking, as I thought, like a pale throne.

This room was chilly, because it seldom had a fire; it was silent, because it was far from the nursery and kitchen; solemn, because it was known to be so seldom entered. The house-maid alone came here on Saturdays, to wipe down the mirrors and the furniture of a week's accumulation of dust: and Aunt Yule herself, at far intervals, visited it to review the contents of a certain secret drawer in the wardrobe, where legal documents, her jewel-casket, and a picture of her deceased husband were stored; and in those last words lies the secret of the red-room—the spell which kept it so lonely in spite of its grandeur.

Uncle Yule had been dead nine years: it was in this room he breathed his last breath; here he lay motionless; his coffin was taken by the undertaker's men; and, since that day, a sense of dreary consecration had lingered in it from frequent intrusion.

My seat, to which Agatha and the bitter Eva had left me riveted, was a low ottoman near the marble fireplace; the bed rose before me; to my right hand there was the high, dark wardrobe, with subdued, broken reflections varying the gloss of its panels; to my left were the muffled windows; a large mirror between them reflected the vacant majesty of the bed and room. I was not quite sure whether they had locked the door; and when finally I dared to move, I got up and checked. Sadly yes: a jail wasn't secured so well. Returning to my seat, I had to pass the mirror; my fascinated glance involuntarily explored the depth it revealed. Everything looked colder and darker in that visionary hollow than in reality: and the strange little figure there gazing at me, with a white face and arms specking the gloom, and glittering eyes of fear moving where all else was still, had the effect of a real spirit: I imagined it like one of the tiny ghosts, half fairy, half imp, Agatha's bedtime stories represented as coming out of shadows and appearing before the eyes of belated travelers. I returned to my stool.

Superstition was with me at that moment; but it was not yet her hour for complete victory: my blood was still warm; the mood of the revolted slave was still bracing me with its bitter vigor.

All Marc Yule's violent tyrannies, all his sisters' proud indifferences, all his mother's aversion, all the servants' partiality, resurfaced in my disturbed mind like a dark veil at a funeral. Why was I always suffering, always ridiculed, always accused, for ever condemned? Why could I never please? Why was it useless to try to win anyone's favor? Adelaide, who was headstrong and selfish, was respected. Jeanette, who had a spoiled temper, a very acrid spite, was universally indulged. Her beauty, her pink cheeks and golden hair, seemed to give delight to all who looked at her, and to purchase indemnity for every fault. No one crossed Marc, much less punished; though he twisted the necks of the doves, killed the little parakeets, set the dogs on the cats, stripped the grapevines of their fruit, and broke the buds off the roses: he called his mother "old hag," too; sometimes insulted her for her dark skin, similar to his own; bluntly disregarded her wishes; frequently tore and spoiled her silk dresses; and he was still "her own darling." I didn't dare commit any fault: I strove to fulfill every wish; and I was termed naughty and tiresome, sullen and sneaking, from morning to noon, and from noon to night.

My head still ached and bled with the blow and fall I had received: no one scolded Marc for cruelly striking me; and because I had turned against him to stop further irrational violence, I was loaded with general insults.

"It's unfair!" said my reason, forced by the agonizing stimulus into the precocious though transitory power: and Resolve, equally wrought up, instigated some strange expedient to achieve escape from insupportable oppression—as running away, or, if that could not be effected, never eating or drinking again, and letting myself die.

My brain was in turmoil, and my heart burned! Yet in the darkness, through dense ignorance, the mental battle fought! I could not answer the ceaseless inward question—_why_ I suffered; now, after so many years, I finally understand.

I was a nuisance at the Yule mansion: I was like nobody there; I had nothing in common with Aunt Yule or her children. I know that had I been a genius, beautiful, careless, exciting child—though equally dependent and friendless—Aunt Yule would have endured my presence a lot better; her children would have been nicer; the servants would have been less prone to make me the scapegoat of the nursery.

Daylight began to escape the red-room; it was past four o'clock, and the clouded afternoon was nearing twilight. I heard the rain still beating continuously on the staircase window, and the wind howling in the grove behind the mansion; I grew colder and colder, and then my courage sank. My mood of humiliation, self-doubt, and depression, didn't seem the priority anymore. Everyone said I was wicked, and maybe I was. Suicide certainly was a sin: and was I fit to die? Or was the vault under the chapel of Boulogne Church an inviting palce? In such vault I had been told did Uncle Yule lie buried; and led by this thought to recall his idea, I dwelt on it with gathering dread. I could not remember him; but I knew that he was my own uncle—my mother's brother—that he had taken me in, as a parent-less infant, to his house; and that in his last moments he made a promise with Aunt Yule that she would raise me as one of her own children. Aunt Yule probably though she kept this promise; and she did, as well as her nature would allow her; but how could she really like an intruder not of her blood, and unconnected with her, after her husband's death? It must have been extremely troublesome to remind herself of the promise to be a replacement parent to a strange child she could not love.

A thought dawned on me. I was certain—more than certain—that if Uncle Yule had been alive, he would have treated me kindly; and now, as I sat looking at the white bed and overshadowed walls—occasionally also turning a fascinated eye towards the dimly gleaning mirror—I began to remember what I had heard of dead people, troubled in their graves by the violation of their last wishes, revisiting the earth to punish the one's doing the wrath and avenge the oppressed; and I thought Uncle Yule's spirit, harassed by the opression of his sister's child, might leave his abode—whether in the church vault or in the unknown world of the departed—and appear in front of me in this room. I wiped my tears and hushed my sobs, fearful that any sign of violent grief might awaken a supernatural voice to comfort me. This idea, made me tremble. Shaking my hair from my eyes, I lifted my head and tried to look boldly around the dark room; at that moment a light gleamed on the wall. Was it, I asked myself, a ray from the moon penetrating through the curtains? No; moonlight was still, and this moved; while I gazed, it glided up to the ceiling and quivered over my head. I can now say that this streak of light was, in fact, a gleam from a flashlight carried by some one across the lawn: but at the time, prepared as my mind was for horror, shaken as my nerves were by agitation, I thought the swift darting beam was an angel from another world. My heart thudded, my head grew hot; a sound filled my ears, which I assumed was the rushing of wings; something seemed near me; I was scared, suffocated: endurance broke down; I rushed to the door and shook the lock in desperate effort. Steps came running down the hall; the key turned, Agatha and Eva entered.

"Zoe, are you ill?" said Agatha.

"What a dreadful noise! it scared me silly" exclaimed Eva.

"Take me out! Let me go into the nursery!" I cried.

"What for? Are you hurt? Have you seen something?" again Agatha demanded.

"I saw a light, and I thought a ghost would come." I was now holding Agatha's hand, and she did not snatch it from me.

"She screamed out on purpose," declared Eva, in some disgust. "And what a scream! If she had been hurt it would be understandable, but she only wanted to bring us all here: I know her naughty tricks."

"What is all this?" demanded another voice; and Aunt Yule came down the hall, her dark hair flying wide, her gown rustling stormily. "Eva and Agatha, I believe I gave orders that Zoe Barton should be left in the red-room till I came to get her myself."

"Zoe screamed, ma'am," pleaded Agatha.

"Let her go," was the only answer. "Let go of Agatha's hand, child: you will not succeed in getting out using this plan. I don't reward faking, particularly in children; it is my duty to show you that tricks will not answer: you will now stay here an hour longer, and it is only if you submit to perfect stillness, then I will let you out."

"O aunt! Forgive me! I I can't take it anymore—punish some other way! I will die if—"

"Silence!" I was a precocious actress in her eyes; she sincerely saw me as cunning, mischievous, wicked actress.

After Agatha and Eva left, Aunt Yule, impatient of my frantic anguish and wild sobs, abruptly pushed me back and locked me in, without further discussion. I heard her sweeping away; and soon after she was gone, unconsciousness closed the scene.


	3. Chapter 3 Dr Felix Charnock

**Reminder: During this period it is the year 1998. Also to answer the question from before, yes I'm going to rewrite the whole book like this. Enjoy!**

Chapter 3: Dr. Felix Charnock

The next thing I remember is, waking up with a feeling as if I had had a terrible nightmare, and in front of me a terrible red glare, crossed with thick black bars. I heard voices, too, speaking with a hollow sound, and as if muffled by a rush of wind or water: agitation, uncertainty, and an all-predominating sense of terror confused me. Not long after, I became aware that some one was touching me; lifting me up and supporting me in a sitting posture, and more tenderly than I had ever been touched before. I rested my head against the pillow or an arm, and felt easy.

After five minutes the cloud of bewilderment dissolved: I knew quite well that I was in my own bed, and that the red glare was the nursery fire. It was night: a candle burnt on the table; Agatha stood at the foot of my bed with a basin in her hand, and a gentleman sat in a chair near my pillow, leaning over me.

I felt an inexpressible relief, a soothing conviction of protection and security, when I knew that there was a stranger in the room, an individual not belonging to the mansion, and not related to Aunt Yule. Turning from Agatha, I scrutinized the face of the gentleman: I knew him; it was Mr. Felix Charnock, the physician, sometimes called in by Aunt Yule when the servants were sick: for herself and the children she employed a higher class physician.

"Well, who am I?" he asked.

I pronounced his name, offering him at the same time my hand: he took it, and smiled. Then he laid me down, and addressing Agatha, told her to be very careful that I was not disturbed during the night. Having given some further directions, he said he would come again the next day, he left; to my grief: I felt so warm and happy while he sat in the chair near my pillow; and when he closed the door after him, the room darkened and my heart sank again: inexpressible sadness weighed it down.

"Do you feel tired, Zoe?" Agatha asked softly.

"Yes."

"Would you like to drink, or eat anything?"

"No, thank you, Agatha."

"Then I'll go to bed, it's past midnight; but call me if you want anything at night."

We spoke so civily! It made me ask a question.

"Agatha, what's wrong with me? Am I sick?"

"Yes, I suppose, in the red-room while crying; you'll be better soon, don't worry."

Agatha went into the maid's bedroom, which was near. I heard her say—

"Eva, come and sleep with me in the nursery; I don't want to be alone with that poor child tonight: she might die; it's so odd that she had that fit: I wonder if she saw anything. Mrs. Yule was rather harsh."

Eva came back with her; they both went to bed; they were whispering together for half-an-hour before they fell asleep. I caught parts of their conversation, from which I was able only too distinctly to infer the main subject discussed.

"Something passed her, all dressed in white, and vanished"—"A great black dog behind him"—"Three loud raps on the chamber door"—"A light in the churchyard just over his grave."

At last both slept: the fire and the candle went out. For me, the hours of that long night passed slowly; strained by dread: such dread as children only can feel.

No severe or prolonged bodily illness followed this incident of the red-room; it only gave my nerves a shock of which I feel the reverberation to this day. Yes, Aunt Yule, I owe you some fearful pangs of mental suffering, but I should forgive you, because you didn't know what you were doing.

The next day, by noon, I was up and dressed, and sat wrapped in a sweater by the nursery. I felt physically weak and broken down: but my worse ailment was an unutterable wretchedness of mind: a wretchedness which kept bringing silent tears; no sooner had I wiped one salt drop from my cheek than another followed. Yet, I thought, I should have been happy, none of the Yules were there, they went to Paris on a shopping spree. Eva was sewing in another room, and Agatha, as she moved from one room to the other, putting away toys and arranging drawers, said a kind word every now and then. This should have made me feel at ease.

Agatha was in the kitchen, and she brought up with her a chocolate chip muffin on a brightly painted china plate. I couldn't eat it, feeling strange that such dishes were used for me, I put muffin aside. Agatha asked if I wanted to read a book: the word _book_ acted as a stimulus, and I asked her for Gulliver's Travels from the library. I read this bok again and again with delight. Yet, when this cherished volume was now placed in my hand—when I turned over its pages, and looked in its marvelous pictures the charm I had, till now,—was eerie and dreary; the giants were gaunt goblins, the pygmies malevolent and fearful imps, Gulliver the most desolate wanderer in most horrifying and dangerous places. I closed the book, and put it on the table, beside the untouched muffin.

Agatha had now finished dusting and cleaning the room, and after washing her hands, she opened a little drawer, full of beautiful shreds of silk and satin, and began making a new dress for Jeanette's doll. Meantime she sang: her song was—

Baby, I'm so into you  
You got that somethin, what can I do  
Baby, you spin me around  
The Earth is movin, but I can't feel the ground

I heard her singing the song before, and always with lively delight; Agatha had a sweet voice,—at least, I thought so. But now, though her voice was still sweet, I found in it a sense of longing. Sometimes, preoccupied with her work, she sang the song very low. I had guessed she liked someone. She was young, only 21.

Every time you look at me  
My heart is jumpin, it's easy to see

You drive me crazy  
I just cant sleep  
Im so excited, I'm in too deep  
Ohh...crazy, but it feels alright  
Baby, thinkin of you keeps me up all night

Tell Me, you're so into me  
That i'm the only one you will see  
Tell me, i'm not in the blue  
That i'm not wastin, my feelings on you

Every time I look at you  
My heart is jumpin, what can I do

You drive me crazy  
I just cant sleep  
Im so excited, I'm in too deep  
Ohh...crazy, but it feels alright  
Baby, thinkin of you keeps me up all night

Crazy, I just can't sleep  
I'm so excited, I'm in too deep  
Crazy, But it feels alright  
Every Day and Every Night

You drive me crazy  
I just cant sleep  
Im so excited, I'm in too deep  
Ohh...crazy, but it feels alright  
Baby, thinkin of you keeps me up all night

You Drive Me Crazy (You drive me crazy baby)  
Ohh..Crazy, But It Feels Alright  
Baby Thinkin of you keeps me up all night  
Baby Thinkin of you keeps me up all night

"Zoe, what's wrong don't cry" Agatha said as she finished. She might as well have told to the fire, "don't burn!" but how could I not? I felt sorry for her that she was stuck here serving Aunt Yule and unable to get married. Sometime in the morning Dr. Charnock came again.

"What, already up!" said he, as he entered the nursery. "Well, nurse, how is she?"

Agatha answered that I was doing very well.

"Then she should look more cheerful. Come here, Zoe: your name is Zoe, right?"

"Yes, Zoe Barton."

"Well, I see you have been crying, Zoe Barton; can you tell me why? Are you hurt?"

"No."

"Oh! Maybe she is crying because she couldn't go out with Mrs. Yule to Paris," Agatha interrupted.

"I don't think so, she isn't the type to cry over such things."

I thought so too; and my self-esteem being wounded by the false charge, I answered promptly, "I never cried for such things in my life: I hate going going shopping with my Aunt. I cry because I am miserable."

"Zoe!" said Agatha.

The kind doctor appeared a little puzzled. I was standing in front him; he fixed his eyes on me very steadily: his eyes were small and grey. after studying me face for a moment, he said—

"What made you sick yesterday?"

"She fell," said Agatha, again putting in her word.

"Fell! that is like acting like a baby! Can't she manage to walk at her age? She must be eight or nine years old."

"I was knocked down," was the blunt explanation, jerked out of me by another pang of mortified pride; "but that did not make me sick," I added.

As he was thinking, a loud bell rang for the servants' dinner; he knew what it was. "That's for you, nurse," he said; "you can go down; I'll give Zoe a lecture till you come back."

Agatha would have stayed, but she was obliged to go, because punctuality at meals was strongly enforced at the Yule Mansion.

"The fall didn't make you sick; what was it then?" pursued Dr. Charnock when Agatha was gone.

"I was shut up in a room where there is a ghost till after dark."

I saw Dr. Charnock smile and frown at the same time.

"Ghost! Seems, you are a baby after all! You are afraid of ghosts?"

"Of Uncle Yule's ghost: he died in that room, and was laid out there. Neither Agatha or any one else will go into it at night; and it was cruel to shut me up alone without light,—so cruel that I think I shall never forget it."

"Nonsense! Is that what makes you miserable? Are you afraid of daylight too now?"

"No: but night will come again soon: and besides,—I am unhappy,—very unhappy, because of other things."

"What other things? Can you tell me some of them?"

I wanted to answer his question so much! But it was difficult for a child to form words that could describe these feelings Fearful, however, of losing this first and only opportunity of relieving my grief, I tried to form a response.

"For one thing, I have no father, mother, brothers or sisters."

"You have a kind aunt and cousins."

Again I paused; then blurted out—

"But Marc Yule knocked me down, and my aunt shut me up in the red-room."

Dr. Charnock took out a cigarette and lit it.

"Don't you think Yule Mansion a very beautiful house?" asked he. "Aren't you thankful to have such a nice place to live?"

"It's not my house; and Eva says I don't have much right to be here than a servant."

"Hih! you can't be silly enough to want to leave such a splendid place?"

"If I had anywhere else to go, I would be glad to leave it; but I can never get away from the mansion until I grow up."

"Maybe you will—who knows? Do you have any relatives besides your Aunt Yule?"

"I don't think so"

"None from your father's side?"

"I'm not sure. I asked Aunt Yule once, and she said I probably did, but she didn't know anything about them."

"If you had any, would you rather live with them?"

I thought for a moment. At first the thought of getting away from this side of the family was good. Exciting even. But on the second thought, what if they were worse that these? I don't think I could have handled it.

"No," was my reply.

"Why not?"

I shook my head: I didn't want to go into such an explanation.

"Would you like to go to school?"

Again I though: I didn't know much about school: Agatha once said that the family sent their children to private boarding schools, it as a place where young ladies sat in the classroom, wore uniforms, and were expected to be exceedingly polite and precise: Marc Yule hated his school, and abused his teacher; but Marc's tastes were no comparison for mine. She described beautiful paintings of landscapes and flowers that were painted by the girls; songs they could sing and pieces they could play. Besides, school would be a complete change: it implied a long journey, an entire separation from Yule Mansion, an entrance into a new life.

"I'd like to go to school," was the audible conclusion of my musings.

"Well! who knows what may happen?" Dr. Charnock said, as he got up. "The child should have a change of atmosphere," he added, speaking to himself; "the nerves are not in a good state."

Agatha returned; at the same moment the car was heard rolling up the gravel driveway.

"Is that your mistress, nurse?" asked Dr. Charnock. "I would like to speak to her before I go."

Agatha escorted him to the breakfast-room. In the discussion which followed between him and Aunt Yule, I presume, from after-occurrences, that the doctor wanted to recommend me being sent to school; and the recommendation was eagerly accepted. Eva said, when discussing the subject with Agatha while both sat crocheting in the nursery one night, after I was in bed, thinking I was asleep, "Mrs. Yule was extremely glad to get rid of such a tiresome, ill-mannered child, who always looked as if she were watching everybody, and scheming plots."

During that same conversation I learned, for the first time, that my father had been a businessman; that my mother had married him against the wishes of her parents; that my grandfather Yule was so irritated at her disobedience, he disowned her; that after my mother and father had been married a year, they got into a car accident while visiting a branch of their business in Paris: that my mother hung on for life, and both died within a month of each other.

Agatha sighed after hearing this and said, "Poor Zoe, I feel sorry for her Eva."

"Yes," responded Eva; "if she nice and pretty."


	4. Chapter 4 Mr Charles Worth

Chapter 4: Mr. Charles Worth

From my discourse with Dr. Charnock, and from the conversation between Agatha and Eva, I gathered enough of hope to suffice as a motive for wishing to get well: a change seemed near,—I desired and waited for it in silence. It delayed, however: days and weeks passed: I had regained my normal state of health, but no new allusion was made to the subject over which I brooded. Aunt Yule observed me with a speculative eye, but rarely spoke to me: since my illness, she had drawn a more marked line of separation than ever between me and her own children; giving me a small room to sleep in by myself, condemning me to take my meals alone, and pass all my time in the nursery, while my cousins were constantly in the living room. However, she was silent about sending me to school: still I felt an instinctive certainty that it wouldn't be long before she couldn't stand having me under the same roof; her glance, now more than ever, when turned on me, expressed an insuperable and rooted aversion.

Adelaide and Jeanette, evidently acting according to orders, spoke to me as little as possible: Marc thrust his tongue in his cheek whenever he saw me, and once attempted chastisement; but as I instantly turned against him, roused by the same sentiment of deep aversion and desperate revolt which had stirred my corruption before, retreated, and ran away, and vowing I had burst his nose. I really did hit as hard as my knuckles could inflict. I heard him in a blubbering tone tell the tale of how "that nasty Zoe Barton" had flown at him like a mad cat: he was stopped rather harshly—

"Don't talk to me about her, Marc: I told you not to go near her; she is not worthy of attention; I do not want either you or your sisters to associate with her."

Here, leaning over the banister of the staircase, I cried out suddenly, and without even deliberating on my words—

"_They_ are not fit to associate with _me_."

aunt Yule was rather a stout woman; but, on hearing this strange and audacious declaration, she ran nimbly up the stairs, swept me like a whirlwind into the nursery, and crushing me down on the edge of the seat, dared me in an emphatic voice to get up from that place, or utter one syllable during the remainder of the day.

"What would Uncle Yule say, if he were alive?" was my scarcely voluntary demand. I say scarcely voluntary, because the words flew out of my mouth before I could understand what I was saying.

"What?" Aunt Yule said under her breath: her usually cold composed grey eye became troubled with a look like fear; she let go of my arm, and gazed at me as if she really did not know whether I were child or fiend. I was now in for it.

"Uncle Yule is in heaven, and can see everything you do and think; and so can mom and dad: they know how you shut me up all day long, and how you wish I was dead."

Aunt Yule soon rallied her spirits: she shook me with great force, she covered both my ears, and then left me without a word.

November, December, and half of January passed away. Christmas and the New Year had been celebrated at Yule Mansion with the usual festive cheer; presents had been exchanged, dinners and evening parties given. From all this enjoyment, I was, of course, excluded: my share of the festivities consisted of witnessing the daily dressing of Adelaide and Jeanette, and seeing them descend to the living room, dressed in silk cocktail dresses appropriate for their age, with hair in elaborate updos; and afterwards, listening to the sound of the CD player paying the recent new album that came out by Christina Aguilera, the passing to and fro of the butler and maids, the jingling of glass and china as refreshments were handed, to the broken hum of conversation as the dining room door opened and closed. Finally tired of this occupation, I went back to the solitary and silent nursery: there, though somewhat sad, I was not miserable. To be honest, I really didn't want to join the party, I was very rarely noticed anyways; and if Agatha had but been kind and companionable, I would have been glad to spend the evenings quietly with her, instead of passing them under the formidable eye of Aunt Yule, in a room full of guests. But Agatha, as soon as she dressed her young ladies, would go into the kitchen where it was lively. I sat with my doll on my knee till the fire got low, glancing round occasionally to make sure that nothing worse than myself haunted the shadowy room; and when the embers sank to a dull red, I undressed hastily, tugging at knots and strings as I best might, and sought shelter from cold and darkness in my bed. The mansion was old, and didn't have a heater everywhere, so the only warmth I got was from the dying fire in the fireplace and my blanket.

The hours seemed long while I waited for the guests to leave, and listened for the sound of Agatha's step on the stairs: sometimes she would come up in the interval to look for her her thimble or her scissors, or perhaps to bring me something to eat—a sandwich or bagel—then she would sit on the bed while I ate it, and when I had finished, she would tuck the blankets round me, and kess me twice on my forehead, and said, "Good night, Zoe." This gentle, Agatha seemed to be the best, prettiest, kindest being in the world; and I wished that she would always be so pleasant and amiable, and never push me aside, or scold. Agatha Trotter must be a girl of good natural capacity, for she was smart and skilled, and had a remarkable knack of stories and songs. She was pretty too, if my recollections of her face and person are correct. I remember her as a slim young woman, with black hair, dark eyes, very nice features, and good, clear complexion; but she had a capricious and hasty temper, but still I preferred her to any one else at Yule Mansion.

It was January 15, about nine o'clock in the morning: Agatha was at breakfast; my cousins weren't called by Aunt Yule yet; Adelaide was putting on her pale pink Emilyan Standing collar coat w/ fur trim, a pale pink fox fur hat, John Lewis silk lined leather gloves, and pale pink lace up ankle boots, to take a walk to the pond behind the mansion, a daily routine no matter the weather.

Jeanette sat by the mirror, brushing her hair, and interweaving her curls with artificial flowers and ribbons. I was making my bed, having received strict orders from Agatha to get it arranged before she returned. Having spread the quilt and folded my night gown, I went to the window-seat to stack the books in a neat pile and pick up the scattered furniture of the doll house; an abrupt command from Jeanette to let her playthings alone stopped me; and then, with nothing to do, I sat staring at the frost-bitten windows seeing nothing.

My gaze focused, when I was the gates open, and a black Toyota Camry drove through toward the house. I watched it drive closer with indifference; such cars often came to Yule mansion, but never had any visitors that interested me; it stopped in front of the house, the door-bell rang loudly, the new-comer was admitted. All this meant nothing to me, my vacant attention soon found livelier attraction in the spectacle of a little hungry robin, which came and chirruped on the twigs of the leafless cherry-tree nailed against the wall near the shed. The remains of my breakfast of waffles and milk stood on the table, I was about to open the window and give the bird my food, when Agatha came running upstairs into the nursery.

"Zoe, what are you doing there? Have you washed your hands and face this morning?"

"No, Agatha; I just finished dusting."

"Troublesome, child! and what are you doing now?"

I was spared the trouble of answering, Agatha seemed in too great a hurry to listen to explanations; she hauled me to the nursery bathroom, inflicted a merciless, but happily brief scrub on my face and hands with soap, water, and a coarse towel; brushed by hair with a bristly brush putting it in a pony tail, dressed me in a clover print skirt hooded dress, white tights, pink fir slipper boots, and then hurrying me to the top of the stairs, told me to hurry, as I was wanted in the breakfast room.

I wanted to ask who wanted me: I thought it was Aunt Yule, but I was dressed too fancy. I turned to ask, but Bessie was already gone, and had closed the nursery-door behind me. I slowly descended. For nearly three months, I had never been called by Aunt Yule; restricted so long to the nursery, the breakfast, dining, and living rooms were forbidden.

I now stood in the empty hall; the breakfast room door in front of me, and I stopped, intimidated and trembling. I was afraid to go back to the nursery, and afraid to go into to the breakfast room; I stood in agitated hesitation for ten minutes; the vehement ringing of the breakfast room bell decided for me; I _must_ enter.

"Who could want me?" I asked inwardly, and with both hands I turned the stiff door-knob, which, for a second or two, resisted my efforts. "Who else beside Aunt Yule wants to see me here?" The handle turned, the door opened, and passing through I looked up at—a black pillar!—at least, it appeared to me, at first sight, the straight, narrow, sable-clad shape standing erect on the rug: the grim face at the top was like a carved mask, placed above the shaft.

Aunt Yule sat in her usual seat by the fireplace; she signaled for me to approach; I did so, and she introduced me to the stony stranger with the words: "This is the little girl that I applied."

_He_, for it was a man, turned his head slowly towards where I stood, and examined me with the two inquisitive-looking grey eyes which twinkled under a pair of bushy brows, said solemnly, and in a bass voice, "She's quite tiny: how old is she?"

"Ten."

"Really?" was the doubtful answer; and he prolonged his scrutiny for a couple more minutes. Then he addressed me—"What is your name?"

"Zoe Barton"

In uttering these words I looked up: he seemed to me a tall gentleman; but then I was very little; his features were large, and they and all the lines of his frame were equally harsh and prim.

"Well, Zoe Barton, are you a good child?"

Impossible to reply to this in the affirmative: my little world held a contrary opinion: I was silent. Aunt Yule answered for me by an expressive shake of the head, adding soon, "Let's not touch that subject, Mr. Worth."

"Sorry to hear it! We will have to talk;" and bending from the perpendicular, he sat in the arm-chair opposite Aunt Yule's. "Come here," he said.

I walked across the rug; he placed me square and straight in front of him. What a face he had, now that it was almost on a level with mine! what a great nose! and what a mouth! and what large prominent teeth!

"There's nothing more sad than a disobedient child," he began, "especially a disobedient little girl. Do you know where the bad go after death?"

"They go to hell," was my ready and orthodox answer.

"And what is hell? Can you tell me that?"

"A pit full of fire."

"And should you like to fall into that pit, and to be burning there for ever?"

"No."

"What must you do to avoid it?"

I deliberated a moment; my answer, when it did come, was objectionable: "I should stay healthy, and not die."

He shook his head doubtfully.

I looked down at the two large feet planted on the rug, and sighed, wishing I was far away.

"I hope that sigh is from the heart, and that you repent for being a discomfort to your excellent benefactress."

"Benefactress! benefactress!" I shouted inwardly: "they all call Aunt Yule my benefactress; if it was so, a benefactress would never had acted like she did toward me."

"Do you say your prayers at night and in the morning?" continued my interrogator.

"Yes."

"Do you read your Bible?"

"Sometimes."

"With pleasure? Are you fond of it?"

"I like Revelations, and the book of Daniel, and Genesis and Samuel, and a little bit of Exodus, and some parts of Kings and Chronicles, and Job and Jonah."

"And the Psalms? I hope you like them?"

"No."

"No? how shocking! I have a little boy, younger than you, who knows six Psalms by heart: and when you ask him which he would rather have, a pice of apple pie to eat or a verse of a Psalm to learn, he says: 'Oh! the verse of a Psalm! angels sing Psalms.'"

"Psalms are not interesting," I remarked.

"That proves you have a wicked heart; and you must pray to God to change it: to give you a new and clean one: to take away your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh."

I was about to ask a question, touching the manner in which that operation of changing my heart was to be performed, when Aunt Reed interrupted, telling me to sit down; she then proceeded to carry on the conversation herself.

"Mr. Worth, I believe I wrote in the letter, that this girl is not as well behaved as I wished: if you admit her into Versailles Academy, I would ask that the superintendent and teachers keep a strict eye on her, and, above all, to guard against her worst fault, a tendency to lie. I mention this in your presence, Zoe, so that you won't impose on Mr. Worth."

The uttered the accusation cut me to the heart; I dimly perceived that she was already obliterating hope from the new phase of existence which she destined me to enter; I felt like she was paving the way to my worst part of life; I saw myself transformed under Mr. Worth's eye into an artful, noxious child, and what could I do to remedy the injury?

"Nothing," I thought, as I struggled to repress a sob, and hastily wiped away some tears, the impotent evidences of my anguish.

"Lying is definitely a sad part of a child's actions," said Mr. Worth; "she be watched, Mrs. Yule. I will speak to Miss Murrell and the other teachers."

"I really hope she will be educated," continued my benefactress; "to be useful, to be humble: as for the vacations, she will, with your permission, always spend them at the academy."

"I agree with you completely Mrs. Yule."

"I will send her, then, as soon as possible, Mr. Worth."

"I shall send Miss Murrell a notice that she is to expect a new girl, so that there will be no difficulty about receiving her. Good-bye."

"Good-bye, Mr. Worth."

"Zoe, here is a book entitled the 'Child's Guide,' read it with prayer, especially that part containing 'An account of the awfully sudden death of Anna Fisher---, a naughty child addicted to falsehood and deceit.'"

With these words Mr. Worth handed me a thin pamphlet sewn in a cover, and sat in his car, he departed.

Aunt Yule and I were left alone: minutes passed in silence; she was reading, I was watching her. Aunt Yule was in her late thirties; she was a woman of robust frame, square-shouldered and strong-limbed, not tall, and, though stout, not obese: she had a somewhat large face, the under jaw being much developed and very solid; her brow was low, her chin large and prominent, mouth and nose sufficiently regular; under her light eyebrows glimmered; her skin was dark and opaque, her hair nearly flaxen; her constitution was sound as a bell—illness never came near her; she was an exact, clever manager; her household and tenantry were thoroughly under her control; her children only at times defied her authority and laughed it to scorn; she dressed well.

Sitting on the couch, a few yards from her arm-chair, I examined her figure. In my hand I held the tract containing the sudden death of the Liar.

Aunt Yule looked up from her book; her eyes settled on mine.

"Go to the nursery," was her mandate. My expression must have been offensive to her, for she spoke with extreme though suppressed irritation. I got up, I went to the door; I came back again; I walked to the window, across the room, then to her.

_I had to speak up._ I gathered my will and launched them in this blunt sentence—

"I am not a liar: if I was, I would say I loved you; but I can openly say I don't love you: I hate you as much as I hate Marc; and this book about the liar, you should give it to your daughter, Jeanette, because she is the is the one that lies, not me."

Aunt Yule's book lay in her lap: she glared at me.

"Is there anything else you want to say?" she asked, rather in the tone in which a person might address an opponent of adult age than such as is ordinarily used to a child.

Though shaking with fear and anger, I continued—

"I am glad you are not my relative: I will never call you aunt again as long as I live. I will never come to see you when I grow up; and if any one asks me how I liked you, and how you treated me, I will say that the very thought of you makes me sick, and that you treated me with miserable cruelty."

"How dare you say that, Zoe Barton?"

"How dare I, Mrs. Yule? How dare I? Because it's the _truth_. You think I have no feelings, and that I can do without one bit of love or kindness; but I can't live like that: and you have no pity. I will remember how you thrust me back—roughly and violently thrust me back—into the red-room, and locked me up there, to the day I die; though I was in agony; though I cried out, while suffocating with distress, 'Have mercy! Have mercy, Aunt Yule!' And that punishment you made me suffer because your evil son struck me—knocked me down for nothing. I will tell anybody who asks me questions, the same thing. People think of you as a good woman, but you are bad, hard-hearted. _You_ are deceitful!"

As soon as I finished, I felt a load being taken off my shoulders. It seemed as if an invisible bond had burst, and that I had struggled out into unhoped-for liberty. Not without cause was this sentiment: Mrs. Yule looked frightened; her book slipped to the floor with a low thud; she lifted her hands, rocking herself back and forth, and even twisting her face as if she would cry.

"Zoe, you are mistaken: what is the matter with you? Why are you trembling so violently? Would you like to drink some water?"

"No, Mrs. Yule."

"Is there anything else you want, Zoe? I assure you, I want to be your friend."

"Not you. You told Mr. Worth I had a bad character, a deceitful disposition; and I'll let everybody at Versailles Academy know what you are, and what you have done."

"Zoe, you don't understand: children must be corrected for their faults."

"Lying is not my fault!" I cried out in a savage, high voice.

"But you are passionate, Zoe, that you must agree with: now return to the nursery—be a dear—and lie down for a bit."

"I am not your dear; I will not lie down: send me to school soon, Mrs. Yule, for I hate to live here."

"I will send her to school soon," Mrs. Yule muttered under her breath; and picking up her book, she abruptly left the room.

I was left alone—winner of the field. It was the hardest battle I had fought, and the first victory I had gained: I stood on the rug, where Mr. Worth had stood, and I enjoyed my conqueror's solitude. First, I smiled to myself and felt elate; but this fierce pleasure subsided . A child shouldn't quarrel with its elders, as I had done.

The taste of vengeance sent a thrill through my body. It was like the aroma of the best wine.

I opened the glass-door in the breakfast-room: the shrubbery was quite still: the black frost reigned, unbroken by sun or breeze, through the grounds. I covered my head and arms with shawl, and went out to walk in a part of the plantation which was quite segregated; but I found no pleasure in the silent trees, the falling fir-cones, the congealed relics of autumn, russet leaves, swept by past winds in heaps, and now stiffened together. I leaned against a gate, and looked into an empty field where no sheep were feeding, where the short grass was nipped and blanched. It was a very grey day; a most opaque sky.

Suddenly I heard a clear voice call, "Zoe! where are you? Come eat lunch!"

It was Agatha, I knew well enough; but I didn't move; her light steps came tripping down the path.

"You naughty little thing!" she said. "Why don't you come when you are called?"

I put my two arms round her in a hug and said, "Oh Agatha, don't scold me."

The action was more frank and fearless than any I was habituated to indulge in: somehow it pleased her.

"You are a strange child, Zoe," she said, as she looked down at me; "a little trouble maker: and you are going to school, I suppose?"

I nodded.

"And won't you be sorry to leave poor Agatha?"

"You don't care for me? you always scold me."

"Because you're such a queer, frightened, shy little thing. You should be bolder."

"What! to get into more trouble?"

"Nonsense! But you are rather a trouble magnet. My mother said, when she came to see me last week, that she would not like any child of hers to be in your place.—Now, come in, and I've some good news for you."

"No you don't."

"What do you mean? Mrs. Yule, young ladies and Master Marc are going out to lunch this afternoon, and you shall have tea with me. I'll ask cook to bake you a little cake, and then you will help me pack your things; I need to have your suitcase ready soon. Mrs. Yule says you will leave in a day or two, and you can choose what toys you want to take with you."

"Agatha, you must promise not to scold me any more till I go."

"I promise; don't be afraid of me."

"I don't think I will ever be afraid of you again, Agatha, because I got used to you, and soon, I'll have another group of people to dread."

"If you dread them they'll dislike you."

"Like you?"

"I don't dislike you, Zoe; I believe I am fonder of you than of all the others."

"You don't show it."

"You sharp little thing. Where did all this boldness come from?"

"Well, I will soon be leaving you, and besides"—I was going to say something about what happened between me and Mrs. Yule, but on second thought I considered it was better to remain silent on that subhect.

"And so you're glad to leave me?"

"No. I'm actually really sorry."

"If I asked you to kiss me, would you?."

"I'll kiss you: bend your head down." Agatha stooped and I kissed her cheek; we mutually embraced, and I followed her into the house quite comforted. That afternoon lapsed in peace and harmony; and in the evening Agatha told me some of her most enchanting stories, and sang me some of her sweetest songs. Even for me life had its gleams of sunshine.


	5. Chapter 5 Versailles Academy

Chapter 5: Versailles Academy

Five o'clock had hardly struck on the morning of the January 19th, when Agatha came into my room and found me already up and covering my bed neatly. I woke up about a half hour before she came in, and took a shower. I was I was leaving Yule Mansion that day on a taxi which would come by at six a.m. Agatha was the only other person awake; she had lit a fire in the nursery, where she now proceeded to make my breakfast. Few children can eat when excited with the thoughts of a journey; nor could I. Agatha, persuaded me to take a spoonful or two if cereal and packed me some muffins and a bottle of juice; then she helped me my jeans, gray sweater, Housse boots, my blue wool duffle coat, we left the nursery. As we passed Mrs. Yule's bedroom, she asked, "Will you go say good-bye to Mrs. Yule?"

"No, Agatha: she came to my room last night when you went to supper, and said I didn't need to disturb her in the morning, or my cousins either; and she told me to remember that she had always been my best friend, and to speak of her and be grateful to her accordingly."

"What did you say?"

"Nothing: I covered my face with the blanket, and turned from her to the wall."

"That was wrong, Zoe."

"It was right. Your Mrs. Yule has never been my friend: she has been my enemy."

"O Zoe! don't say that!"

"Good-bye to Yule Mansion!" I cried, as we walked down the hall and out the front door.

The moon was set, and it was very dark; Agatha turned on the path lights. The winter air was raw and feisty, My teeth chattered as I walked toward the gate. I wheeled my suitcase outside the gate and Agatha and I stood waiting for the taxi. I jogger ran by.

"Is she going by herself?" she asked.

"Yes."

"And how far is it?"

"Fifty miles."

"What a long way! I wonder Mrs. Yule is not afraid to let her go alone so far."

The taxi drove up up; the driver put my suitcase in the trunk; I hugged Agatha for the last time really tightly.

"Be sure and take good care of her," cried she to the driver, as he closed the door behind me.

"Sure, sure!" was the answer: the driver side door was slapped shut, a voice exclaimed "All right," and we drove off. Thus was I separated from Agatha and Yule Mansion.

I remember very little of the journey; I only know that the day seemed to me of a preternatural length, and that we appeared to travel over hundreds of miles of road. We passed through villages and farms, and in one, a very large one, the taxi stopped; he pumped some gas into the car. He carried me into a cafe, where the driver wanted me to have some dinner; but, as I had no appetite, he left me to sit still while he got himself a sub.

I woke up when the taxi door opened, and a person like a servant was standing at it: I saw her face and dress by the light of the street lamps lamps.

"Are you Zoe Barton?" she asked. I answered "Yes," and was then lifted out; my suitcase was handed down, and the taxi instantly drove away.

I was stiff with long sitting. Gathering myself, I looked around me. Rain, wind, and darkness filled the air; nevertheless, I dimly discerned a wall infront me and a door open in it; through this door I passed with my new guide: she shut and locked it behind her. There was now visible a house or houses—for the building spread far—with many windows, and lights burning in some; we went up a broad pebbly path, splashing wet, and were admitted at a door; then the servant led me through a passage into a room with a fire, where she left me alone.

I stood and warmed my numbed fingers over the blaze, then I looked round; two desk lamps were on, reflecting the light, by intervals, papered walls, carpet, curtains, shining mahogany furniture: it was a parlor, not so spacious or splendid as the living room at Yule Mansion, but comfortable enough. I was racking my brain to make out the subject of a picture on the wall, when the door opened, and an individual carrying portfolio; another followed close behind.

The first was a tall lady with dark hair, dark eyes, and a pale and large forehead; her figure was enveloped long black dress, her countenance was grave, her bearing erect.

"The child is too young to be sent alone," she said, putting portfolio on the table. She studied me attentively for a minute or two, then further added—

"She had better be put to bed soon; she looks tired: are you tired?" she asked, placing her hand on my shoulder.

"A little."

"And hungry too, no doubt: let her have some supper before she goes to bed, Kathy. Is this the first time you have left your parents to come to school?"

I explained to her that I had no parents. She inquired how long they had been dead: then how old I was, what was my name, whether I could read, write, and sew a little: then she touched my cheek gently with her forefinger, and saying, "She hoped I should be a good child," dismissed me along with Kathy.

The lady I had left might be about twenty-nine; the one who went with me appeared some years younger: the first impressed me by her voice, look, and air. Kathy was more ordinary; ruddy in complexion, though of a careworn countenance; hurried in gait and action, like one who had always a multiplicity of tasks on hand. Led by her, I passed from room to room, from hallway to hallway, of a large and irregular building; till, emerging from the total and somewhat dreary silence pervading that portion of the house we had traversed, we came upon the hum of many voices, and presently entered a wide, long room, with great long table, and seated all round on chairs, a congregation of girls of every age, from nine or ten to twenty. Seen by the dim light of the candle chandeliers, their number to me appeared countless, though not in reality exceeding eighty; they were uniformly dressed in black turtle neck short sleeved shirts, blue and black plaid belted knee length skirts, black tights, red rosette flats. Each girl had a white cameo bow brooch pinned on the left side of their collar, and theu wore a red bow headband. Red Tara Jarmon coats hung on the back of their chairs. It was dinner time, and the girls ate and talked excitedly.

Kathy assigned me a chair near the door, then walking up to the front of the long room she cried out—

"Girls, we have a new pupil, please welcome her warmly!"

The girls all turned to stare at me as I sat down awkwardly.

Someone brought me a tray of food, and gupled in down like I hadn't eaten for days.

The meal over, prayers were read by Kathy, and the girls filed off, two and two, upstairs. I was taken to a room where there were two beds. A girl was already asleep. I undressed quietly and lay down in the bed that was empty, and amidst silence and complete darkness I fell asleep.

The night passed rapidly. I was too tired even to dream; I only once awoke to hear the wind rave in furious gusts, and the rain fall in torrents. When I opened my eyes again, a loud bell was ringing; the girl next to me was up and dressing in her uniform; day had not yet begun to dawn, and a rushlight or two burned in the room. I too rose reluctantly; it was bitter cold, and I dressed in the uniform laid out for my by Kathy as well as I could while shivering, and washed my face in the bathroom that occupied 4 girls when there was a sink free, which did not occur soon, as there was one sink to four girls. Again the bell rang: all formed in a line, two and two, and in that order descended the stairs and entered the cold and dimly lit breakfast room: here prayers were read by Kathy.

Trays of cereal was brought in and set at each table of two. Breakfast flew by fast.

A distant bell tinkled: immediately the girls got up and almost marched to a classroom that was formed like theater. Three ladies entered the room, two walked to a table and the other at the other table. Kathy assumed the place by the single standing woman, which was that nearest the door.

Business now began, the day's Collect was repeated, then certain texts of Scripture were said, and to these succeeded a protracted reading of chapters in the Bible, which lasted an hour. By the time that exercise was terminated, day had fully dawned. The indefatigable bell now sounded for the fourth time: the girls took out their text books and began to read silently.

A quarter of an hour passed before the lesson began. Kathy was now the only teacher in the room.

After a while, as my eyes wandered from face to face, the whole school rose simultaneously, as if moved by a common spring.

What was the matter? I had heard no order given: I was puzzled. By the time I comprehended to do the same, the girls were again seated: but as all eyes were now turned to one point, mine followed the general direction, and encountered the personage who had received me last night. She stood at the bottom of the long room, on the hearth; for there was a fire at each end; she surveyed the two rows of girls silently and gravely. Kathy approaching, seemed to ask her a question, and having received her answer, went back to her place, and said aloud—

"Monitor of the first class, fetch the globes!"

While the direction was being executed, the lady consulted moved slowly up the room. I suppose I have a considerable organ of veneration, for I retain yet the sense of admiring awe with which my eyes traced her steps. Seen now, in broad daylight, she looked tall, fair, and shapely; brown eyes with a benignant light in their irids, and a fine pencilling of long lashes round, relieved the whiteness of her large front; on each of her temples her hair, of a very dark brown, was clustered in round curls, according to the fashion of those times, when neither smooth bands nor long ringlets were in vogue; her dress, also in the mode of the day, was of purple cloth, relieved by a sort of Spanish trimming of black velvet; a gold watch around her wrist. She was Miss Murrell—Camille Murrell, as I afterwards saw the name written in a prayer-book she let me borrow.

The superintendent of Versailles Academy taught geography with the globes to the younger children, I amongst them; History and Grammer was next; writing and arithmetic succeeded, and music lessons were given by Miss Murrell to some of the older girls. The duration of each lesson was measured by the clock, which at last struck twelve. The superintendent rose—

"It is time for lunch," said she.

Lunch consisted of sandwiches which were served in the lunch dining room with a view into the garden.

The garden was a wide inclosure, surrounded with walls so high as to exclude every glimpse of prospect; a covered verandah ran down one side, and broad walks bordered a middle space divided into scores of little beds: these beds were assigned as gardens for the pupils to cultivate, and each bed had an owner. When full of flowers they would doubtless look pretty; but now, at the latter end of January, all was wintry blight and brown decay. I shuddered as I stood and looked round me: it was an inclement day for outdoor exercise; not positively rainy, but darkened by a drizzling yellow fog; all under foot was still soaking wet with the floods of yesterday. The stronger among the girls ran about and engaged in active games outside, but sundry pale and thin ones herded together for shelter and warmth in the veranda; and amongst these, as the dense mist penetrated to their shivering frames, I heard frequently the sound of a hollow cough.

I hadn't spoken to anyone yet, nor did anybody seem to take notice of me; I stood lonely enough: but to that feeling of isolation I was accustomed; it did not oppress me much. I leant against a pillar of the veranda, buttoned up my red coat and crossed my arms, trying to forget the cold which nipped me. I looked around the convent-like garden, and then up at the house—a large building, half of which seemed grey and old, the other half quite new. The new part, containing the schoolroom and dormitory, was lit by mullioned and latticed windows, which gave it a church-like aspect; a stone tablet over the door bore this inscription:—

"Versailles Academy.—This portion was rebuilt 1971, by Mary Worth, of Worth Hall, in this county." "Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven."— Matt. v. 16.

I read these words over and over again: I felt that an explanation belonged to them, and was unable to find it. I was still pondering the signification of "Academy," and endeavoring to make out a connection between the first words and the verse of Scripture, when the sound of a cough close behind me made me turn my head. I saw a girl sitting on a stone bench near by; she was bent over a book, on the perusal of which she seemed intent: from where I stood I could see the title—it was "Sense and Sensibility;" a title I had read many times. In turning a page she happened to look up, and I said to her directly—

"You like Jane Austen nooks?" I had already formed the intention of asking her to lend it to me some day.

"Yes," she answered, after a pause of a second or two, during which she examined me.

"Is this the first book you read?" I continued. I hardly know where I found the hardihood thus to open a conversation with a stranger; the step was contrary to my nature and habits: but I think her occupation touched a chord of sympathy somewhere; for I too liked reading, though of a frivolous and childish kind; I could not digest or comprehend the serious or substantial.

"Yes, you may look at it," replied the girl, offering me the book.

I did so; a brief examination convinced me that the contents were less taking than the title: The book had no pictures, only words one after another. I returned it to her; she received it quietly, and without saying anything she was about to relapse into her former studious mood: again I ventured to disturb her—

"Can you tell me what the writing on that stone over the door means? What is Versailles Academy?"

"This house where we all live."

"And why do they call it Academy? Is it in any way different from other schools?"

"It is a private-school: you and I, and many rest of us, are charity-children. I suppose you are an orphan: are not either your father or your mother dead?"

"Both died before I can remember."

"Well, all the girls here have lost either one or both parents, and this is called an academy for educating orphans."

"Do we pay no money? Do they keep us for nothing?"

"Sponsors pay for us. Otherwise we would be given to an orphanage and we wouldn't be wearing such nice uniforms."

"Then why do they call us charity-children?"

"Because people that don't know us, pay for us."

"Who pays?"

"Different rich people in Paris."

"Who was Mary Worth?"

"The lady who built the new part of this house as that tablet records, and whose son overlooks and directs everything here."

"Why?"

"Because he is treasurer and manager of the establishment."

"Then this house does not belong to Miss Murrell?"

"To Miss Murrell? Oh, no! I wish it did: she has to answer to Mr. Worth for everything she does. Mr. Worth approves or disapproves of what to buy."

"Does he live here?"

"No—two miles off, in a large apartment."

"Is he a good man?"

"He works at a bank, they say he does a lot for this academy."

"Do you like the teachers?"

"Some."

"Do you like the little black one, and the Madame ---?—I cannot pronounce her name as you do."

"Miss Shortshanger is hasty—you must take care not to offend her; Madame Ruvog is not a bad sort of person."

"But Miss Miss Murell is the best—isn't she?"

"Miss Murrell is very good and very clever; she is above the rest, because she knows far more than they do."

"How long have you been here?"

"Two years."

"Are you an orphan?"

"My mother is dead. My father left her long ago."

"Are you happy here?"

"You ask too many questions. Let's stop for now. I want to read."

But at that moment the bell sounded for tea; all re-entered the house. The tea room was red and dark. Instead of tables and chairs, there were booths. It looked like a restaurant in some ways.

After tea, we immediately adjourned to the schoolroom: lessons recommenced, and were continued till five o'clock after which we had dinner.

The only event worth remembering was the girl I met during lunch and our small conversation.


End file.
